


Choosing Family

by AmayaNatsuya



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bobby meets the Winchesters, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Protective Bobby Singer, The culprit isn't John, Wee!chesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 15:35:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1946601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmayaNatsuya/pseuds/AmayaNatsuya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bobby Singer didn't always like the Winchester boys.  He'd vowed never to have children, and when he'd lost Karen, he'd lost the chance.  Then John showed up with his sons, and Bobby might have been a little bit jealous.  And a little . . . gruff.  He also decided, very resolutely, that he wasn't going to like those boys.  But after agreeing to watch them for a couple days, it was hard (okay, impossible) for Bobby not to change his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Choosing Family

Robert Singer eyed the black, 1967 Chevrolet Impala pulling through the salvage yard. Whoever owned her certainly kept her in good condition. She still purred like a kitten and Bobby bet she could make most modern cars eat her dust. The hunter shoved the front door open as a tall, dark haired man climbed from the car. "Bobby Singer?"

Bobby raised an eyebrow. "Do I know you?"

"Oh, I'm John Winchester. Carl sent me your way. Said you know a thing or two about the supernatural—and about demons."

"I been known to dabble a bit," Bobby agreed, eyeing the man. He was a a few years younger than Bobby and had a marine corps tattoo on his forearm. He looked like he knew how to handle a weapon, at the very least, and Bobby thought he might even survive his first hunt. "C'mon in. We'll grab a couple beers and go through my books."

"Thanks," John replied, then shifted uncomfortably. "But I don't know—maybe I could just borrow the books?"

"The books don't leave the house," Bobby almost snapped. John sighed and reluctantly pulled the passenger door open to reveal a small, blond boy of maybe five or six, curled up in the front seat. A booster seat in the back yielded a second, younger boy and Bobby scowled. "They kin come in, but they _don't_ touch the books. And I ain't amusin' 'em."

"No, they're good boys," John hastened to assure him, unbuckling the younger boy and setting him on the ground before scooping up the elder. "The baby is Sammy and the older boy is Dean."

Sammy blinked innocent, hazel eyes up at him and smiled, revealing dimples in both cheeks. "Hi hi! I Sammy!"

Bobby scowled at him and shoved the screen open. "C'mon. We ain't got all day."

Sammy's brows pinched and the toddler threw his arms around John's thigh, sniffing. John sighed and scooped him up, pressing a kiss to his brown hair. "He's not mad," John promised. "He just . . . isn't used to kids, is all."

"Is otay, Daddy," Sammy replied, though he didn't look any happier. John settled the boys on the couch, Sammy idly playing with John's car keys while he and Bobby started looking through books. Dean woke after a few minutes, green eyes fluttering in confusion when he realized that not only had the car stopped, he wasn't in it.

"Daddy?"

"We're at Mr. Singer's, Dean. You and Sammy can play _quietly_. Watch out for Sammy."

"Yes, sir," Dean saluted his father, making John smile. Sammy giggled and threw himself at his brother. Dean laughed, wrapping Sammy in his arms and tickling the toddler, making him shriek.

Bobby scowled. "Shut your boys up, Winchester."

"Boys," John barked, and the two froze, wide eyed. "Apologize this second."

"Sorry Mr. Singer," Dean whispered, following closely by Sammy saying, "Sorry, Mista Singa."

Hearing the boys call him Mr. Singer—a name Bobby had _always_ associated with his asshole of a father—didn't do anything to improve his mood. John looked between Bobby and the boys, then muttered, "Maybe they could play outside?"

"Just don't touch anything," Bobby snapped, ignoring the way the boys shrank in on themselves. Dean took his brother's hand and the two slid from the couch then hurried outside, refusing to meet Bobby's eyes.

John returned several more times over the course of the week, but he didn't have the boys with him when he came. For all Bobby knew he was leaving them in the motel room. The older boy seemed to watch the younger well enough, after all.

<>*<>

 

It was a month and a half before John dared bring the boys with him a second time. Bobby scowled when he saw them. "We coulda re-scheduled."

"I didn't have access to a phone," John gave a thin shrug. "I didn't want you to think I was wasting your time. I can come back, or the boys can just play outside. It's nice out."

"Just so long's they don't pester me," Bobby snapped.

"Yessir, Mr. Singer," Dean mumbled at the ground.

"Sorry I had to bring them," John sighed, resting a hand on Dean's head and ruffling his hair. "I forgot Dean was out of school and I couldn't find anyone to watch them."

"We go outside," Sammy piped up. "Me an' De no bother. Otay?"

"Go on," John told his boys, watching them retreat out the door before he followed Bobby to the den. For nearly an hour the two went through Bobby's books, trying to find information on the yellow eyed demon that killed Mary Winchester, but before they'd made any real headway, it began to pour. The boys raced inside as lightening lit up the darkened sky, and Bobby hoped they were smart enough to stop in the kitchen.

When thunder clapped, however, Dean—and Sammy by extension—were in the den throwing themselves at John, wailing, "Daddy!"

John all but threw the book out of the way so it wouldn't get wet and Bobby grabbed it with a scowl, making sure none of the pages were torn. "You goddamn idjits!"

The boys burst into tears and John gathered them both up hastily. "Bobby, I am so, so sorry."

"Get them outta here! They're gettin' water all over my goddamn books!" Bobby snapped, shoving all three into the kitchen. "Idjits!"

"Sorry, Mista Singa," Sammy muttered as Dean sobbed into John's coat. "De no like thunda."

"I hadn't fucking noticed," Bobby grumbled as the boys started to shiver. Bobby growled softly and grabbed a few towels, throwing them at John. Dean whimpered as another clap of thunder rattled the window panes.

"I'll get out of your hair just as soon as I get the boys a little warmer," John promised. Bobby rolled his eyes.

"Just take the damn towels. You can bring 'em back next time you come." Bobby watched John sprint through the rain. Scowling, Bobby headed back to the den to check over his books.

<>*<>

 

It was another three months before Bobby saw the Winchester boys again, and this time it was for John to leave the boys at Bobby's for a few days.

"Thanks for agreeing to watch the boys, Bobby," John dropped a couple duffels and a diaper bag on Bobby's porch. "I know it must be a hassle."

Bobby shrugged. He'd found a nice salt and burn a couple counties over and it was a good opportunity to give the new hunter a chance to really get his feet wet. Unfortunately, John didn't have anywhere to leave his kids so Bobby—very reluctantly—agreed to keep them. Even worse, at least to Bobby, it was overcast and threatening to rain so the boys couldn't spend the day outside. "It's fine."

"They've got some toys in their duffels," John told him, "And Sammy is mostly toilet trained. Dean can handle that, though, so you won't need to worry about it. They both eat everything. Sammy likes to climb but he's pretty good about listening when you tell him not to."

"Go," Bobby sighed, waving John off. "Before I change my mind."

John thanked him again and rushed for the car, waving at the boys as he left. The two huddled together, staring up at Bobby uncertainly. "Well, get inside," Bobby half snapped. "I ain't got all day."

He was just grateful it was already mid-afternoon and their bedtime was at eight. All he had to do was make it through four hours and dinner. Dean dragged their duffels inside, Sammy trailing silently after him with the diaper bag. "Um . . . ex-use me Mista Singa," Sammy timidly tugged Bobby's pant leg, stumbling back when Bobby yanked away. "Um . . . where we sleep?"

"I got a spare room upstairs. You'll have to share the bed," Bobby gestured toward the stairs, gabbing all three bags when it became clear neither boy could lift them. Tiny fingers gripped his hand and Bobby yanked away almost violently.

"Um . . . I gotta . . . I gotta has help up," Sammy mumbled. "An' De's not big 'nough."

"Fine," Bobby snatched up his hand, almost pulling the toddler up the stairs. Once they reached the top, Bobby dropped his hand and marched down the hall. "Bathroom's next to your room. Don't go in any of the other rooms. If you didn't bring it an' you ain't asked, don't touch it. Stay quiet and outta my way. Dinner's at six."

"Yessir," Both boys replied, mostly to the floor. Bobby dumped their bags on the bed and stomped back down the stairs, wondering why he'd agreed to take the kids. He didn't even _like_ children.

It wasn't long before Bobby heard the boys make their way back downstairs, Sammy clutching a Dr. Seuss book in his arms. Dean helped him crawl onto the couch, then followed after him. The two curled around each other, glancing at Bobby a couple of times as Dean settled the book on their laps and flipped it open. "The Cat and the Hat," Dean read, grinning as Sammy pointed at the pictures. Bobby stiffened. He hadn't expected Dean to read out loud. "The. Sun. Did. Not. Shine. It. Was. Too. Wet. To. Play. So—"

"If you're gonna read, do it silently," Bobby barked.

Dean shrank back. "But—um—Sammy can't read."

"Then don't read in here," Bobby growled impatiently.

"Sorry," Sammy whispered as Dean hugged him tightly. "We won' do 'gain. Me an' De'll lookit pit-tures."

Bobby sighed in contentment as the boys looked through their book, huddled together on his couch. For nearly an hour they were still and quiet, then Sammy whispered something to his brother and the duo headed toward the door. Bobby glanced up and grinned when he realized the sun had come out so the boys headed outside to play.

For another hour there was silence and then a wail from the yard made Bobby almost throw his book down in frustration. "What the hell're you boys doin'?" Bobby demanded, slamming the door open. "I'm tryin' to get research done for your daddy."

Dean's eyes widened as he curled around a sobbing Sammy, hands pressed to the younger boy's skinned knee. "We're sorry," Dean pleaded, eyes firmly on Bobby's shoes. "Sammy just had a accident.   If we kin jus' have a band-aid . . . "

Bobby let out a frustrated growl and reach for the boys. Sammy burrowed closer to Dean, wailing, "Pease don' hit us!"

Bobby's jaw dropped. "What? Why would you think I'd do that? Does—does your dad hit you?"

"Hunters don' like kids much," Dean mumbled to the ground. Bobby frowned. What was with that kid and mumbling? He spoke to John and Sammy just fine. "An' sometimes Daddy has ta leave us with 'em."

"Like now."

The boys shrugged and Bobby sighed, scooping Sammy off the ground and heading toward the house. The boys were quiet as Bobby fixed up Sammy's knee, and Dean gave it a kiss to make it better. After bandaging Sammy up, the boys curled back up on the couch while Bobby put in a pizza. The boys were quiet until bed-time, not even raising a fuss when Bobby ordered them upstairs.

Bobby went to bed around midnight, and the storm rolled in at two in the morning. Bobby never would have known about the storm, except a tiny hand was patting at his face. "What the fuck?"

"I sorry, Mista Singa," Sammy's face was pinched and uncertain. "But De had a ascident. Can we has new sheets?"

Bobby grumbled but rolled out of bed, tucking Sammy under his arm as he headed for the linen closet. "Does he do this often?"

Sammy gave a tiny shrug, twisting his fingers together. "On'y when is stormy."

Bobby sighed and grabbed new sheets and a towel, heading for the boys' bedroom. Dean was huddled in the corner with his hands over his ears, choking out soft, hitching sobs and keening every time he heard a clap of thunder. Dean's pajamas and the sheets were soaked with urine and the bed right along with them. Sammy squirmed from Bobby's hold and pressed to Dean's back, gripping Dean's shirt almost desperately. Dean gripped his hand. "Sammy?"

"Mista Singa brought sheets," Sammy told him.

"Okay," Dean uncurled enough for Bobby to see his red-rimmed eyes and snot covered face. "I'm sorry, Mr. Singer. I kin change the bed. Please don' be pissed."

"You watch your mouth," Bobby admonished almost automatically, surprised when both boys flinched. "You gotta be older afore you kin use words like that."

"Sorry, Mr. Singer," Dean whimpered, throwing himself back in the corner with a cry when a loud clap of thunder shook the house. "I din't mean to."

Sammy followed him, both huddling away from the hunter, and it was only then that Bobby realized they expected the gruff hunter to hit them. Bobby sighed. He'd walked in the room, angry, expecting to toss the sheets and towel on the bed and leave them to deal with it. Dean was six—Bobby was pretty sure that was old enough to make a bed—but seeing him huddled in the corner, _expecting_ Bobby's rage over a stupid accident, made the hunter's heart ache.

The man set the sheets aside and gathered Dean into his arms, ignoring the urine soaking his clothes as he rocked the little boy gently. "I know you didn't mean to, Ace," Bobby stroked his hair. "That's why it's called an accident."

"I kin clean up," Dean promised. "You won't even know I done it."

"You and Sammy are getting in the bath," Bobby told him, taking both boys into the bathroom. "And then we're getting you in clean PJs. And _then_ we'll deal with the bed."

"You ain't gonna hit me?" Dean asked plaintively, though he was mumbling into Bobby's shoulder.

"Of course not," Bobby scowled. "I ain't hit you yet. Why would I start now?"

Dean shrugged, huddled in Bobby's arms. He cried out when another peal of thunder shook the house, clinging to Bobby with all his strength. Bobby rubbed his back soothingly, running a bath one-handed and plopping both boys in it. The boys were quiet and compliant as Bobby scrubbed them down—probably a bit roughly, though it was from inexperience rather than anger, then went to change himself before heading back to deal with the bed.

Clean and re-dressed, Dean began to methodically strip the bed and Bobby drew in a sharp breath to realize he had practice. Probably not due to John—the man was hardly father of the year, but he tried his best—more likely it was from the hunters they'd stayed with before. "Don't put the sheets on," Bobby threw a towel over the bed. "It's soaked. You cain't sleep on it."

"S'otay," Sammy replied. "We do it alla time."

"Even with your dad?"

Sammy shook his head. "We sleep with Daddy. We sleep in wet beds when no Daddy."

"We'll figure out something," Bobby told them, considering. The couch couldn't be slept on—the only clean space was the seat cushion the boys had huddled on earlier—so they'd just have to sleep in Bobby's bed. "Come on. I guess we'll just have to pile in my bed tonight."

Dean was still flinching with the thunder, so Bobby let the kid press to his side, curled in a tiny ball with one of Bobby's arms wrapped protectively around him. Sammy sprawled over them both, head pillowed on Bobby's stomach. The younger boy was asleep in five minutes, though Dean took longer to soothe into dreamland.

<>*<>

 

Bobby woke to both boys tucked close the next morning, Dean peacefully clutching his shirt in sleep. Sammy was awake, dimpling up at Bobby and showing off his pearly, little teeth in a baby grin. "G'morning!"

"Mornin', Peanut," Bobby carefully extricated himself from the boys. "You wanna help me make breakfast?"

Sammy blinked up at him, smile fading slowly. "Are you mad?"

"About last night?"

"Uh huh."

"For what?" Bobby settled the little boy on his hip. "The accident? Peanut, it was an accident. They happen."

"You din't like us yesserday," Sammy fiddled with Bobby's shirt collar. "Nobody likes us."

"Your Daddy does."

"Me an' Daddy an' Dean. Nobody else," Sammy tried to explain. "We bad. We stupid. Get inna lotsa trouble."

"You're little boys. Trouble is your job," Bobby ruffled his hair. "And you're not stupid, you're just kids."

"We loud," Sammy mumbled. "You said."

"I was havin' a bad day yesterday, Peanut. You ever had a bad day? Sometimes nothing works right and ya just get cranky." Bobby plopped the kid on the kitchen table. "Today ain't a bad day, though. Today we're gonna have bacon and pancakes for breakfast. How's that?"

"Me an' De _love_ pancakes!" Sammy perked up. "De says Mommy made yummy pancakes!"

"Well, they won't be as good as your mom's, but I bet they'll still be pretty good," Bobby couldn't help smiling at the toddler. Sammy's grin was infectious. "So, you wanna help?"

"What kin I do?" Sammy kicked his feet.

"Well, once I get some ingredients—the stuff we make them with—you can help stir. How's that?"

"Yeah! I make pancakes! Like Mommy!" Sammy cheered. "De'll be es-cited!"

"I bet he will," Bobby agreed as they got to work. Sammy hummed almost tunelessly. Bobby turned to tell him to stop and nearly kicked himself when the boy went silent, shrinking in on himself and mumbling a quiet apology. Instead, Bobby began singing a Beatles song, grinning when Sammy joined in, making up words as he went.

Dean wandered in as Bobby finished cooking the bacon, rubbing sleep from his eyes. The moment he heard Sammy, Dean slapped a hand over his mouth, shooting Bobby a horrified look. "Sammy, we have to be quiet. Mr. Singer don't like us noisy."

Sammy blinked at him, and Dean quietly added, "He don't really like us at all."

Bobby felt like he'd been shot in the heart. After all the times his own father had said such horrible things to him, after every vow he'd made never to treat another child like he'd been treated, he'd gone and done it anyway. Sure he'd never _hit_ the boys—and God help him, he never would—but he'd made them feel as small and worthless as he had with nothing but how he'd treated them. "That's not true, Ace. I like ya jus' fine."

"He said he had a bad day yesserday," Sammy tacked on. "But today is a good day!"

"We're making pancakes for breakfast," Bobby ruffled Dean's hair. "You want to help?"

"It's okay?" Dean bit his lip. "What if we make a mess? Or if we do something wrong?"

"So what? We can clean," Bobby pulled a couple chairs to the counter and the trio get to work. The boys did make a mess, but Bobby made sure not to get mad whenever he heard a soft oops from one of the boys. The first time it happened Dean was almost beside himself to clean it up, to make sure Bobby didn't think it was Sammy's fault, to make sure Sammy wouldn't get in trouble.

Bobby cursed himself silently. How could he have treated these little boys so badly?

After breakfast, Bobby sent them to get dressed, then decided he needed to make a stop at the toy store to get a couple toys for them. A baseball and football was probably good enough. Maybe a Frisbee, if he got desperate. He wasn't expecting to go on a shopping spree. They left the store with the balls he wanted, plus a few extra, as well has a bunch of other toys—board games, puzzles, coloring books and crayons, and about a million squirt guns.

While they were in town, Bobby took them took the park and figured they'd go to the diner for lunch after, readily pushing Sammy on the swings while Dean scrambled around the jungle gym. They even went down the hot metal slides several times, though how they managed it without searing themselves like steaks, Bobby didn't know. He couldn't even touch the damn thing.

"Mista Singa?" Sammy tugged his pant leg twice, then pulled back, like he expected Bobby to jerk away. "Can I has a drink? I can't reach th' fount-in."

"Sure, kiddo," Bobby lifted him easily. "I was thinkin' we might go get ice cream after we're done playin'. What'd'ya think?"

"I like ice cream," Sammy nodded. "De like pie, though."

"We can go to the diner, then," Bobby swung Sammy onto his shoulders. "Get some lunch and some desert. Would you like that?"

"You very nice today, Mista Singa," Sammy wrapped an arm around his head. "I love you."

Bobby thought his heart would explode. "Well, I love you too, Peanut. Hey, what would you and Dean think, to call me Uncle Bobby? Would you like that?"

"But . . . we ain't re-la-ted," Sammy frowned. "So you cain't be."

"Family don't end with blood, boy," Bobby replied. "Family kin be blood, or it can be anyone you want."

"So you is Unca Bobby?" Sammy tilted his head. "I like Unca Bobby. He's nice."

"Then Uncle Bobby it is," The man let Sammy climb from his shoulders to the jungle gym, watching him carefully navigate to Dean.

"Unca Bobby taked me for a drink," Sammy told his brother.

Dean jerked. "Uncle Bobby?"

"He said fam'ly don't end wis blood. He's gonna be our Unca Bobby 'steada Mista Singa."

"He _wants_ to be Uncle Bobby?" Dean's brows furrowed. "But . . . nobody wants us."

"Unca Bobby loves us," Sammy told his brother. "He tolded me so."

Dean considered Bobby for several minutes, then tentatively called, "Uncle Bobby? Can you help me get down?"

Bobby plucked him from the playground equipment, hugging the boy before letting him down. "How about some lunch? There's a great diner down the street. They have ice cream. _And_ pie."

"It's okay?" Dean looked uncertain. "The other hunters din't like . . . we took care of ourselves, mostly. Daddy left us food if you're tired of cooking for us."

"I'm ain't tired of nothing," Bobby gave Dean a toss into the air, grinning as the boy laughed. "I jus' want some ice cream. And maybe some pie. Don't you?"

It was the first time Bobby had seen Dean smile at him, had seen him smile at all, and Bobby couldn't help but grin in reply. How anyone could dislike these boys was a complete mystery.

<>*<>

 

John pulled into Singer Salvage tired, but content. He'd managed to completely waste the ghost he'd gone after and he'd managed to make it back relatively unscathed—a couple of bruises, a few cuts, nothing serious—and he was looking forward to seeing his boys again. He knew hunting with a couple of young children would be hard, but the hardest thing was leaving them, especially leaving them with someone who clearly disliked them. Well, disliked children in general, perhaps not his children specifically.

The moment John opened the door of the car he could hear Dean shrieking from the back of the house. John paled. He'd left them with another hunter that felt the need to use corporal punishment on his boys and Dean had wet the bed for three weeks straight afterward. The man raced around the building and froze, wide-eyed, when he saw Bobby swinging the boys around, all three laughing. Dean let out occasional shrieks of glee, dangling from one of Bobby's arms.

John breathed out a pray of thanks that his boys were safe, that they'd managed to worm their way into Bobby's heart, and that Dean was _laughing_ in front of someone else. "Again!" The boy screamed, then giggled. "Again, again, again!"

Bobby laughed right along with him, fingers dancing along the little boy's ribs while Sammy latched onto the man's leg like a little leech, butt firmly planted on Bobby's right shoe. "I save De from th' monster!"

"Sounds like you boys had fun," John called, and Bobby found himself suddenly abandoned as both boys streaked for their father.

"Daddy!" John scooped them both up for a bear hug, pressing kisses to their foreheads.

"Did you boys have fun with Mr. Singer?"

"He's Unca Bobby," Sammy announced. "Cause fam-ly don' end wis blood!"

"That so?" John looked at Bobby who gave a little shrug.

"Me and the boys may have bonded while you were gone," Bobby admitted. "They're good kids."

"Didn't think you much liked them," John admitted. "You weren't too happy the other times they were here."

"My wife and I never planned on havin' children," Bobby admitted, glancing at the boys. "It weren't her idea. My father—Well, I weren't sure I could do right by 'em. After she died, well, it didn't matter anyhow. There weren't no one to have kids _with_ , you know?"

"And now my boys are callin' you Uncle Bobby?"

"I didn't hit 'em," Bobby replied. "Said I'd never hit a kid. But that ain't the only way to hurt a kid, ya know? And when I realized how scared they were of me, like I'd been scared of my father and, well . . . that was jus' as bad as hittin' 'em. You got good kids, Winchester."

"I'm pretty fond of them myself," John grinned when Dean squirmed to get down. "Thanks for watching 'em."

"Your boys are welcome here anytime," Bobby led them back to the house. "I wasn't sure when you'd be back so I was makin' some chili. You're welcome to it afore ya head out."

"Unca Bobby makes the bestest chili!" Sammy added.

"Oh really?"

"Yeah. He said so!" Sammy nodded, and John couldn't help laughing.

"He's making cornbread, too," Dean told his father, and John was a little startled that Dean wasn't shy talking around the other hunter. He'd barely spoken since his mother died—hadn't spoken for almost a year—and John was grateful for his eldest's words.

"Dean must like you," John let the older boy down and watched him tag after Bobby. "He doesn't talk to just anyone. Not since his mother died."

"He wet the bed during the storm," Bobby led the way inside. "It was kinda the catalyst for alla this."

"Dean didn't talk after Mary died. He was completely silent until about six months ago. Just before we met you, in fact. It's why he still talks to the floor a lot. The therapist said it would go away."

"Same reason the poor kid wets the bed, I bet," Bobby nodded. "Trauma can do a lot of things to people, especially kids."

"I'm just hoping he bounces back."

"Kids are resilient," Bobby waved it off. "I'm more impressed you took him to a therapist."

"Well it's not like I knew the whole story," John scowled. "And even if _I_ knew, Dean don't. And I don't plan on telling him. Not for a couple more years, anyway. Last thing I want is for him to be driven back into silence."

Bobby nodded, handing Dean dishes and Sammy silverware so they could set the table. "Milk's in the fridge."

"Wait, they drank _milk_ for you?" John's jaw dropped. Sammy was notorious for not wanting anything but apple juice. "Well, Dean, sure, but _Sammy_ drank milk for you?"

"Does he not usually?"

"Not without a fuss," John found cups and poured the boys milk before grabbing beers for himself and Bobby. "Kid _hates_ milk. And he is stubborn as fuck."

"I told him he couldn't leave the table if he didn't drink it."

"Last time I tried that, he sat at the table for _three hours_. I had to throw out the milk."

"It's fresh, if that matters," Bobby shrugged. "Got a few neighbors that keep cows, I let 'em dig through the yard for parts in exchange for fresh milk. Maybe it's that? It tastes different from the store bought stuff."

John took a sip from Sammy's cup, ignoring his protest. It did taste different. "That's pretty good."

"There's butter in there, too," Bobby instructed. "Would you get it for the cornbread?"

John obeyed as Bobby served up the chili. Sammy was a messy eater, and John hoped he'd outgrow it, but Dean took small, neat bites. Both were packing the food away like they hadn't eaten in a week, though considering everything they were telling him, Bobby hadn't starved them. Not like the last hunter they'd stayed with. John was glad he'd only been gone overnight with that hunt.

Bobby had gathered their things that morning, so it was easy enough for John to load up the car. The boys both hugged Bobby good-bye and John thanked him again. Before the man could get in the car, Bobby caught his arm. "The boys are welcome back here," Bobby told him. "Just say the word."

John grinned at the older hunter, climbing into the Impala. "Thanks, Bobby."

Bobby gave the boys a short wave and headed to the house to fix up the guest room a little bit. He had a feeling he'd been seeing a hell of a lot more of those boys, now that John had somewhere safe to leave them. And, for all the cluterfucks those boys got him into until the day he died, Bobby never did regret it.

**Author's Note:**

> I was scribbling for a different, random idea that may or may not ever go anywhere when I re-read, ". . . a lot of hunters disliked children and until Bobby had gotten to know the boys . . . he was pretty sure he'd been one of them."
> 
> And that idea refused to go away. So then I ended up writing this. I hope you enjoyed it, and if you see any mistakes please let me know so I can fix them. I'd also really love some feedback on Bobby's speech. I stink at accents and I'd really like to get better with them. Also, I'd appreciate any suggestions for improvement, it's the only way I can get better.
> 
> Thanks and I hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
